


This is How the World Ends

by alnora



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angst, Grief/Mourning, Human Castiel, M/M, Mentions of Character Death, brief mention of sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-26
Updated: 2015-07-26
Packaged: 2018-04-11 10:01:18
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,002
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4430984
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/alnora/pseuds/alnora
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dean tries to cope with life after Sam.</p>
            </blockquote>





	This is How the World Ends

**Author's Note:**

> Non-linear. If enough people like this throughout the internets I'll probably conclude it with one final chapter.

As the muted browns and grays of winter and early spring gave way to revitalization -crisp skies and green and, as always, the remains of animals that failed to scurry across the road- they moved north.

 

Several days into the winter solstice was when they began. Three bags of clothing, one for Dean and two for Cas, not quite adapted to the lifestyle of repetitive uprooting Dean was accustomed to, lay in the back seat of the Impala. The right blinker ticked away as she idled on the side of the road, not very far from where they began at the bunker. One hand limply gripped the steering wheel, the other on his lap. And it was cold. Dean hardly if at all gave the car time to warm up, the crystal sky and the bright of the sun deceiving the mind to just how chilly it was outside, meaning the car's heater was spitting out chilled air.

 

He stared straight ahead as cars passed by, rocking the car as they did. Dean... he did this often and Cas knew to leave well enough alone. Cas thought of it as a fog, condensing upon Dean and evaporating on a dime. The fog drifted in often, but that was to be expected. Nor was Cas safe from having his vision impaired.

 

“No more.” Cas could tell he wanted to sound more determined and assured, wanted so badly to have an iota of control over himself. But it came out winded. Defeated.

 

“Of what?”

 

“This,” giving no indication to what it was.

 

Dean's thumb rubbed at the steering wheel.

 

What money they got for trading in the car was used to buy a motorcycle, not a chopper Dean said he always wanted, but something sleeker and suited for the purpose. A quick return to the bunker to unload the weapons, ammunition, trinkets, vials of subjective liquids and other tools of the trade that made up the trunk, as well as painting over the devil's trap on the underside. And that was it. As cold as any other transaction between salesmen. No longer was it his car or his father's car, not the car him and Sam shared nearly for a decade crossing the country to rid it of its monsters, their chariot of chrome. S.W. + D.W. Toys lodged in the backseat ashtray. That of course had to be removed before resale.

 

An eraser to paper. Dean began to purge himself.

 

Cas would lose track of time in the beginning, the bumps on the road and vibration between his legs making them ache at first to inevitably numbing them, the roar of the motor, all became a buzz and time blended like water colors, bleeding and seeping the seconds, minutes, hours. While the stiffness and aches of long rides remained, his sense of direction and space tuned.

 

Life on the road, the only life Dean knew, was beginning to make sense in that way. Not only following maps and road signs but simple things like the sun. Being a passenger and not having a roof and doors to restrict perspective, the flow of time was visible. That was so much easier to comprehend as an angel – rather, it was a default trait and being such never thought of it in philosophical terms. Hell, angels could control time to some extent. Now he felt it as humans did. How could time move at the same rate all day, every day, and yet seem to slow down? How darkness of the mind could stretch for what felt like years and in reality last two hours.

 

So they made their way east, You Are Now Entering the Bayou State, sticking close to Interstate 20 and nearly halfway through. Behind them an anvil cloud blew its way northeast, avoiding the travelers by many miles. An beautiful day otherwise. A quick glance to his left and right made clear that the time was approximately 4 PM. Whether they would rest for the night or only break at rest stops was never planned. Not necessarily because of money – though it was the case twice. Dean... Sometimes he needed to go all night. Sleep would never close those eyes long enough to justify a room, if they closed at all. Monsters slinking in the shadows that couldn't be defeated haunted motels.

 

Other nights they would stop anywhere.

 

“Dean?” Castiel guessed it must have been one in the morning when Dean parked the overworked bike under a light in a deserted and shadowy park by a river in Oregon. Dean said nothing as they both removed their helmets, Cas trying to wiggle some life back to his legs. A gloved hand grabbed him above the wrist and led him to a bench only feet from the parking space.

 

They sat side by side, Dean as close as he ever had since Sam's death, and they watched in silence the twinkling lights from the town on the opposite side of the river, and the gentle slosh of the water.

 

It was difficult to gauge where Dean was at that time, his face having been a blank canvas for so long; eyes red from so little sleep and the tears that would fall when he thought Cas wasn't there or paying attention to see them, skin beginning to draw in around his already high cheekbones. Dean got around to shaving his facial hair in the few instances they stayed overnight somewhere; he would probably forgo his hygiene altogether if Cas weren't there to twist his arm. That night it was rather thick.

 

Cas was ecstatic to see Dean's eyelids begin to droop, fending off the inevitable like a stubborn kitten. He's tired. He _needs_ to be tired.

 

“Lie down.” He shimmied to the edge of the bench. “I'll wake you if someone gets too close.” In Dean's sleep haze he looked at Cas as if he were speaking Enochian. He parted his lips to say something, maybe about how odd the demand was, but the battle was lost. Dean lay down on his side, head resting against Castiel's thigh and knees drawn tight to not have his feet dangle over the edge.

 

Cas kept vigilant guard as Dean finally -finally- fell asleep.

 

Clothing was an issue that was hastily dealt with yet became a nuisance on the road. Travel with an automobile for those lengthy miles would have alleviated the predicament. But as much as it was a hassle to pack such little clothing into backpacks, alternating everyday what little they had before washing the ever-living life out of them, Cas knew that this method of transportation was a means of escape. A car would have been... the same.

 

Lingering too long at a stop sign again. It happened, with or without traffic to distract him from inner monologues, at stop lights or stop signs. Cas's arms tightening around his stomach always seemed to bring him back to ground level. Should he trust his new mortal life to someone who lost focus like that? That's usually the case. He trusted Dean. Of course Cas nor Jimmy knew how to operate a motorcycle and he and Dean were far worse off with him steering, but he trusted Dean to know when enough was enough. Not thinking clearly, gotta pull over, punch a fucking tree. Which has happened. Not the tree pugilism. When they first began their cross-country trip he'd stop frequently – the side of the road, pull into the nearest town to take a breather. Sometimes alone, sometimes with Cas by his side. His silent partner. The silence he needed more than any word.

 

With a jerk of his head Dean was back and continued.

 

Dean never once blamed Cas for Sam's death. Perhaps he was so crushed by his own turbulent mind that he couldn't put one and one together. But Cas certainly still felt the guilt. If only he still had his grace there would be a chance of Sam walking this earth today and them not trying to outrun an invisible ghost. He could have healed Sam, revived the most precious thing in Dean's life, and prevented _this_ from ever happening.

 

Humans are weak. Emotionally, physically. He wasn't prepared, no, not the slightest. One of his best friends died and he felt, from the skin to the pit of his stomach, he was being torn in half. Something broke, shattered, fell onto the ground. Cas has witnessed his siblings being erased from existence since time began – as an angel. As a soldier. Death was an inevitability and they died for a righteous cause. Then he made contact with humans and saw his holy crusade was nothing more than war. These intelligent apes wanted nothing more than to live. Sam wanted nothing more than to help others live.

 

Dean cried. Castiel cried in solitude. As the body was set aflame in the pyre Cas stood behind Dean several feet away. He felt like an intruder, and to some extent a traitor. If not for you Sam would be alive; Dean should be alone, this is for him, not you. A murderer showing up to his victim's funeral.

 

Dean looked over his shoulder and said Cas' name as if he had no air in his lungs. When Cas shook his head Dean said “Please” just as weakly. He's not thinking clearly, there is no way he would want me standing anywhere near him. For now, that is what Dean wants, and he would give him that accepting all later consequences.

 

The bike made a turn to the left into a convenience store, pulling beside a pumping station to refuel. Cas normally would stay outside while Dean went to pay and was surprised when this time Dean motioned for him to come along. Hanging his helmet opposite of Dean's, he followed.

 

“I'm not hungry, but I figured you would be. You're gonna force me to eat something anyway, right?” He pushed open the door and held it open for Cas.

 

“Of course.”

 

Dean's smile was minuscule.

 

Having no appetite, shopping around for food was difficult for him, pacing the floor and indecisive. Drinks were easy enough: coffee late night to early morning, soda anytime after. Food at any hour looked as appetizing as a tire. He tried, though, to stomach it, even if he never finished, which Cas appreciated with his entire soul. Cas never told him that. Whether at a restaurant or a diner or sitting beside him on a bench at a place like this, he was patient. His own bites were slowed sometimes; he wrestled with his own guilt and shame. But he persisted for Dean. Their eyes would meet, communicating something neither of them knew – encouragement? understanding? hope? aches that could not be soothed easily? Small bites. It was all Cas wanted. If he lost Dean too...

 

The fire eventually extinguished itself and Castiel left Dean to clean what remained: his last act of compassion for Sam. An hour passed. Two. Three. Footsteps were finally heard going past his room, a hallway that shared Sam's. Cas fought within his head, Leave Dean be, You don't need to say anything just check on him. But Dean was his friend, his family here on earth, and his family was hurting far beyond what he could grasp. Just show yourself. Even if Dean doesn't want your sympathy just let him know you're there. That he's not alone even if he feels like the only person alive in this universe.

 

Cas summoned all his resolve and left to follow Dean, who was found in the kitchen sitting at the table with his head down and both hands cupped around a beer. He could sense nothing emanating from Dean, no hostility, no sorrow, no hopelessness. Just a shell. A picture on a wall. Warm blood flowed in his veins – that and that alone qualified him as living. To lose his reason for living, he was as good as dead.

 

Say something. Don't. You have to. What could I possibly say to him?

 

Worthless. Cas was worthless as a human. What could he do? He could do _nothing_. Walk away with your tail between your legs like the garbage you are.

 

Hands gripped tight and knuckles turned white, pinched lips holding back what would have been gibberish.

 

“Cas.”

 

Dean's raw voice stopped Cas from turning around and walking away for what might have been for good. As Dean rubbed his eyes Cas could now see the bloody knuckles.

 

From the twisted look on Dean's face he was having his own dueling inner struggle. Speak or not speak? What he should say if he does? Cas moved in closer but still gave the space he thought Dean needed.

 

“I can't...” He bit his lips. “I can't risk it anymore. Always taking for granted you and Sammy when I should **know**... I should know better. Everyone I know dies. Everyone.” A tear slid down his cheek. “There's so much I should have done for him, said to him. But Sammy'll always be around, it can wait until then. And I push it back and back and back until he's fucking _dead_ and the dead don't give a good damn what you tell 'em. How I feel? How he feels? Doesn't mean a fucking thing.”

 

His eyes never met Cas's. “I can't live like that anymore. Before either of us die, I have to tell you. I don't  _ need _ this anymore. All the secrets, all this stuff that's just been stewing for years. I either got nothing to lose or I just don't care anymore.”

 

A thumb rubbed absently at red fingers. The air in Cas's lungs weighed gallons. Dean's very life up until this very moment flickered in his eyes and was erased with a blink.

 

“Cas.” He winced, growled and tried to continue with gritted teeth. “You... I... Stay with me,” he finished softly. “Not like, not like you are right now. I mean...” The old Dean took up arms against this new Sam-less Dean, vulnerable and exposed and choking the words in his throat. “Stay with me.”

 

In his mind he walked with determination next to Dean and held his as tightly as he could, repeating  _ yes yes yes _ , squeezing all the hurt and sorrow out of him until Dean was back, his Dean, so he could comprehend and appreciate what he had just inferred, and to see the joy Cas felt.

 

That world was false. That joy was marred with every malicious counter imaginable. Words, action, were without meaning. What Cas had been waiting years to hear was one of the most heartrending things that ever could have been said. Dean's love was true, but it came from a place of unimaginable despair. And without Sam, would Dean have ever said anything? Would Dean have died without confession?

 

Probably. And the grieving process with all of its shame and remorse would still occur.

 

 

“You really do have a thing for breakfast sweets, don't you?” Dean motioned to the half-eaten pistachio muffin in Cas's hand.

 

“I enjoy typical breakfast foods. Unfortunately not at all are very healthy. Is this distinctive of American cuisine or worldwide?”

 

“Nothing here in the U. S of A. is healthy. Enjoy all the muffins you want. It's gonna kill you either way.”

 

Cas swallowed after finishing a bite. “Thank you for not purchasing the mystery meat tube.”

 

“ _Hot dog_ , Cas.”

 

“We were pulled over for half an hour.”

 

Dean huffed. “You finally get me to eat and I think I puked up food I ate a year ago.”

 

“It was most likely sitting on that rotational mechanism for a year,” Cas pondered.

 

Two plastic bags filled with assorted potato chips, red vines and chocolates for Cas, and bottled water rested on the picnic table top behind Dean and Cas, a rare breeze making them crinkle once and awhile. A styrofoam cup of coffee was held in Dean's hand cooling slowly as possible. A half-eaten turkey sandwich on a hard roll sat between him and Cas, bits of lettuce and tomato juice scattered on the plastic wrapper. The former angel was grateful for every chew.

 

They would sit in silence most of the time but were always listening: to the traffic, the chirping of birds, arguments people had with those on the other end of a cell phone, kids begging for sodas they'd never finish. Life continued, and Dean resented it and others because of that. A great person, a person who has risked his life over the years until he finally perished – and none of them knew. Nobody cared. He didn't just die nameless, he died an unknown. _Here lies Anonymous. Who gives a damn?_

 

He repeated those words like they were all he knew; he screamed, whimpered them, vomited them. When all energy left him Dean collapsed onto the bed, head in his hands and lost in his own body. Cas placed a gentle hand on his bare shoulder.

 

“Did you ever care that you could die without anyone knowing your name?”

 

“No... I, I guess not. People hunt for a lotta different reasons. Usually revenge.”

 

“When you made the deal for Sam did you ever once think about what the general public would think?”

 

“Course not. All that mattered was getting Sam back.”

 

Cas moved from behind Dean to set cross-legged beside him, motel bed squeaking underneath him. “Everything you two ever did, I'd say for a good portion of both your lives, was for each other. You died to save Sam; Sam died to save the world, yes, but his biggest reason was so that you would continue to live. Sam never even consider himself as dying in vain because _you_ knew him, and as long as you did he could pass in peace. Just like you would.”

 

It was a trifle more complicated now. Cas could feel eyes on him then though he never mentioned it. Dean was contemplating their relationship. In the future, should... _when_ death occurs, would he feel the same way? Would Cas feel the same way? Could there ever be a chance of Cas attaining that degree of trust and love and devotion? With Sam gone, did anyone stand a chance?

 

Dean could do anything because of me. I'll... do anything for him.

 

Cas tilted his head aside imperceptibly, hoping Dean would be unaware of his gaze. His hair was longer than he's ever seen it, but not by very much. That coupled with the stretch of skin due to the weight loss made his eyes seem darker. That's what Cas thought anyway. Or maybe eyes truly are reflective. Even if Cas were still an angel, these were not wounds he could heal.

 

Looking away casually was difficult but he had to make it fast because it _hurt_. Someone's compressing your lungs so you can't breathe, your heart is in your throat and the rims of your eyes can just barely hold back tears because the person you love more than anything -more than God and heaven and angels- is silently begging for help and what can you do but watch? When you are willing to make a deal just to see him smile again? And like an invisible umbilical you feel that pain, his pain feeds into you. You want to touch him, hold his hand, kiss him everywhere and tell him You'll make it through this, I promise.

 

Maybe there will come a time when Cas would do just that. But he was finally ready to admit that it frightened him. Being human, well, made him human. Never had he had issue with speaking his mind and telling others how they should feel. It was simple and logical. Now he too was a fragile creature. Considerate, careful. Do unto others. Consolation of that nature would cause Dean to panic and distance himself further. Any touch at all was difficult for him to bear.

 

Their first kiss -one of very few- Castiel regarded as “a moment of weakness” on Dean's part. They waited for the rain to subside before exiting their motel room in northern Texas. Cas straddled the bike and attempted to put on his helmet when Dean carefully lifted his head up by the chin. He was caught off guard and it happened so quickly, so damnably quick, but Father he _saw_ Dean then in that brief moment. Healthy and alert and so capable, innocent and curious. His Dean.

 

Then Dean's lips were on his, chaste and surprisingly no hint of nerves – although Cas himself was too shocked to be nervous. The stubble on Dean's chin and upper lip brushed Cas's own. His arms tensed as he was unsure of what he should do with them. Touch him? Caress him? As he debated with himself Dean pulled away and the tide of negativity enveloped him face once again. It wasn't until the bike backed up that Cas remembered to put his helmet on.

 

Sex fared no better. Sex in that it happened only once. Cas, fresh from a shower, sat close to Dean on the bed, closer than he would normally venture. Not that Dean discouraged it, but his body language would display that some distance would suit him better. Dean channel surfed not really watching anything, using it only as a source of noise. None of his previous favorite pastimes interested him much anymore.

 

Cas caught his eyes lingering. As they locked, Dean was quick to look aside. Out of the corner of his eye he could see Dean's toes curl. After many minutes of stalling and fidgeting due to Cas's concern, Dean found his voice.

 

“Cas, I want to... I know you're not going to believe me but...”

 

“What makes you say that?”

 

His voice caught in his throat, sounding almost like a sob, and he leaned over to kiss Cas (which he had time to mentally prepare himself for). And it wasn't as exploratory as the first time or the extreme few times after; he was desperate. Now that Cas had time to look back on that night with a clear head, everything Dean did was desperate. This poor defeated man was desperate to feel something. The Dean he knew still resided in the broken man, Cas could see it in the gentle way he would kiss him, the little smirk when Cas said something ignorant. That Dean was still there inside this husk and he needed attention and care and reassurance, to be held and... maybe, finally confront the loss of his brother.

 

But that Dean lived in a shell, so the agonized outside deduced that intercourse makes you feel something so do that. You did that before. His brother was never dead before.

 

Cas knew from the very beginning that this would end in failure. Maybe he was desperate too. Maybe that side of him thought it would be a temporary solution. Any moment of respite was welcomed. God he just wanted Dean to be okay even if it was only a caricature of what okay should be.

 

Dean failed to maintain an erection, and looked as dejected and forlorn as he did before they started.

 

“I'm sorry for being such a shit boyfriend.”

 

The water Cas had been sipping nearly went up his nose, stinging his sinuses a little. Unsure of what to say, he only coughed.

 

“I mean it, Cas. I think back on it now and it feels like I trapped you. My...” He shook his head and sighed. “My intentions were completely honest, and I meant every damn word I said then. But I'm not following through on anything. I'm not doing what I should be doing, or acting, or saying. I'm doing... this.”

 

“This is you trying to find yet another way to make yourself feel guilty. Please, Dean, look at me,” he said sternly when Dean strayed. “How well do you know me? If you displeased me as much as you think you do I would have left you to your own devices many months ago. I would have said 'No more' and left. But...” He was white-knuckling his thighs now. “When you told me to stay, that you needed me – as more than a friend... as much as I ached for Sam and your loss, I almost laughed from the relief. You reciprocated my love, and I was overjoyed and still floating in mourning. A very indescribable sensation.”

 

Dean cracked a smile. “No kidding.”

 

“Dean...” Cas looked up to the blue sky, taking in its simple beauty, what he has lost, what he gained. “ _Grieve_. When you dwell on what I may be thinking, and I assure you it's not what you picture, it gives you another excuse to pity yourself and trap you in this, this cycle.” He grabbed Dean's hand, his eyes widening not in repulsion but awe. “I _know_ you, inside and out. There is nothing in the world you should feel ashamed or embarrassed about with me. I've lied to you in the past and that can never be erased, but I pray that you'll believe it one day.”

 

Dean's hand remained in his, relaxing just a bit, and a wave of bittersweet joy coursed through Cas. “I mean, I should have waited until I felt better to spring this all on you. But I was just so damn afraid. There was nothing left of Sammy, I spent all that time just hammering the shit out of everything I could, so I go back inside and all that was left was fear. He was my reason to live all my life and then he's just _gone_.

 

“I had Sam so I didn't need you, even if I did kinda... want you...” He trailed off meekly before taking an exaggerated bite of his sandwich, which made Cas genuinely smile for the first time in awhile. Dean didn't want to speak of his treatment of Cas, but he knew Dean inside and out, right? While it may have not made much sense while he was an angel, as a human decoding the boy was made more simple; his emotions were not merely notes on paper to read and memorize but emotions to inspire empathy. Only before was it sympathy, but now he could fully and truly bond with Dean, as much as he would allow.

 

“I loved him, too.”

 

Dean place his hand on top of Cas's, oblivious to any passersby.

 

 

Cas looked between the tiny gap in his backpack to the two snack-sized bags of chips in his hand, back to the backpack, back to the chips. The bags would pop open once he zipped up, he was sure of it, to rain orange dust all over his clothes. But he bought them, and he liked nacho flavor...

 

“They shouldn't pop unless you sit on them. Or you fall off,” Dean said from over his shoulder, weighing in on the eternal struggle between junk food and necessities. Cas only squinted.

 

“Just hold on tight, 'kay? Until we get to a hotel.”

 

That certainly caught Cas's attention. “We have enough money?”

 

“For tonight, yeah. Besides, you're looking a little greasy there,” he motioned to Cas's increasingly unmanageable hair.

 

“You're one to talk, Winchester. We could both use a shower.”

 

Dean froze in place, hand caught in mid-air hovering over his visor. His face was obscured, but he hung his head low and shook it. Did he want to say something and thought better of it?

 

He never did elaborate. Cas placed the bags with the utmost care into the backpack and took his spot behind Dean. His place, just like Sam's in the Impala. Dean knows many people, some alive, some not. Only few were ever his passengers.

 

The grief still ever-consumed Dean, tight around him like clothing. But the difference now was that, however weakly, he was attempting to tear his way out of it. Those little words and movements may not seem like much to him, only they were, in the grand scheme of things. Dean had the choice to either lie down on his stomach and concede to the past, letting it trample over him, or he could... live. The cons certainly outweighed the pros when it came to living, but the scale was slowly becoming unbalanced.

 

He was talking. Even if the smile was forced or halfhearted, he _tried_. Dean's world still continued, and no amount of guilt was going to change that. The love Dean had for his brother was unique and could never be replaced, as it is between all siblings, Cas knew that. Replacing Sam was never his goal; he never considered it for a second. Cas hoped that what he gave to Dean would be good enough. Good _for_ him.

 

Pressing close to Dean as they made their way to the closest motel, Cas thought _Yes_. Because the Dean that let his eyes linger a touch too long on him, still concerned and caring despite what they both put each other through, the Dean who would flirt with him and pass it off as a joke although anyone who heard it knew he was a damn poor liar – he would always be there. Not even Hell could take away that part of him. His kindness. His beauty. His devotion.

 

Dean was the strongest creature he knew, and he was a part of it. And Cas would be there when he wanted to reemerge.

 

Food sat in his stomach, as did a little in Dean's. A warm shower and a, well, bed of questionable comfort awaited him. Blue skies, temperate air and a smooth road. Trivial to most, a world of importance to them. For now they were okay. For now okay was all Cas could ever want. That may change soon and it probably would. Just let it happen. Dean spent his entire life taking tending to others. He deserved a chance to let down his walls.

 

Four months, two weeks, three days, thirteen hours and forty-seven minutes.


End file.
